As a makeup artist, I find myself torn when asked to “pop a little blush and lip gloss” on a flower girl at a wedding or hear about toddlers entering beauty pageants with full makeup. It raises the question: when is it appropriate to introduce makeup to a minor? Is it purely innocent fun, or does it begin to instill a deeper message about beauty and identity that stays with a child?
Take, for example, Disney’s Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique, where girls as young as three undergo a princess makeover, complete with tiara, glitter, and makeup. It’s marketed as a magical transformation, an entry into the fantasy world of beloved princesses. But what do these princesses represent? At their best, Disney princesses embody courage, kindness, and curiosity. But undeniably, they are also figures of beauty, often defined by their flawless appearance and physical transformation. For young girls, especially those immersed in this fantasy, the association of beauty and femininity with value may take root early on.
I wrestle with this: How different is this from Halloween, where a costume and face paint are part of playful transformation? Isn’t makeup, at its core, a form of creative expression? Adults, too, come to me for transformations, whether for a wedding or a photoshoot, and we see it as a powerful confidence boost. So why does it feel more complicated when applied to children? Is it simply because adults have a more developed sense of self?
As a woman in her mid 30’s, there’s a part of me that longs to experience the childlike wonder of a princess makeover myself. Maybe it’s because I never stepped into the Bippidi Bobbidi Boutique as a child, but I wonder if adults could tap into that same magic, it might expand our own sense of play and imagination. Perhaps the childlike fantasy could remind us that beauty, at any age, doesn’t need to be an expectation but an invitation to enjoy ourselves, to transform for fun rather than obligation.
I don’t have children of my own, and I’ve never been to the Boutique, so I ask these questions as an observer in both wonder and hesitation. Should makeup be seen as a rite of passage, as play, or is it something that unintentionally conditions children to equate beauty with worth? Or, in a world of performance and transformation, is life merely a kind of theatre, and makeup is just another costume we wear?
I often wonder what it must feel like for the children when the magic of their princess transformation ends. After a day spent embodying a fairytale character, sparkling in gowns and makeup, what emotions come when they have to remove the costume and step out of that enchanted role? Does it feel like leaving behind a dream, or is it simply part of the play for them? Perhaps the most curious question is how they adjust to returning to their everyday selves—are they left with a sense of longing for that fantasy or contentment with the memory of it? Does the fleeting nature of the experience leave an imprint on how they see beauty and identity as they grow?
Ultimately, when does the fairy tale begin and when does it end?